


(she is) everything that helps me get through the day

by schwanenkoenigin



Series: only you pt. 1 [1]
Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amusement Parks, Anxiety, F/F, Pining, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-09 18:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwanenkoenigin/pseuds/schwanenkoenigin
Summary: prompt: Camila is in an amusement park and sees actress Lauren perform.cue loads of anxiety and pining.





	(she is) everything that helps me get through the day

**Author's Note:**

> hi i am back with another one shot written to fill a request i got on wattpad. 
> 
> enjoy this and leave kudos or drop a comment please.

“Excuse me,” she mumbles to a tall guy in khaki shorts, “I need to get--” A groan tumbles past her lips. “Never mind.” She can feel his questioning gaze on the back of her neck as she keeps her head down and quietly shuffles her way out of the dizzying crowd. It takes only a few steps until she’s reached the door to one of the many restrooms of the park. The second she’s inside the stall, she leans against the wall. A long sigh leaves her throat as she ruffles her own hair. “Jesus.”

She can’t believe how exhausting today has been. It isn’t even one yet---it’s merely half past twelve---and she’s had more than enough. Being here has drained all the energy she’d had. And she had a lot of it. She had actually been looking forward to today. Now, everything is just terrible.

It always goes the same way. Every single time. It sounds super fun in theory, she thinks she can focus on the rides and the fresh air and the colorful surroundings. And then she gets there, and all she can do is try not to to throw up from all the anxiety that she gets. The roller coasters have _nothing_ on her anxiety. There is no way they’d ever be able to induce the same amount of nausea in her.

It’s such a shame, too. She used to love amusement parks, she used to be able to enjoy them freely, without any doubts and worries. And now? She still loves the concept of them, sure, but being here, in reality, is a nightmare. She can’t even say how or why she managed to convince herself to come here this time. It may have been the usual, “It’s going to be so much better than I remember!” Or maybe it was, “Ah, once I’m there it’s going to be fine. I’ll be okay!” Or how about, “Come on, the rides will distract you enough, you won’t even remember you were anxious in the first place?”

Camila wants to slap herself. She really should learn to _not_ trust any of the tricks that her brain plays on her in calm situations. In the end, reality is always worse than just thinking about it. With her arm covering her face, she sinks down onto the toilet. “I’m such a mess,” she mutters to nobody in particular.

It isn’t even like she has any excuse. She can’t say, “my friends dragged me here.” She can’t blame her parents, can’t blame her sister. It’s her. She wants to fight her anxiety. Wants to tell it, “Look at me! Look at me do this stuff, you have no power over me!” Needless to say, however, exposure therapy does not seem to be working all that well with her.

Yet here she is again.

The loud creak of the old bathroom door is a very distant sound to her; she’s so lost in her self-deprecating thoughts that she barely notices anything that is happening around her. It is the same thing. Repeating itself over and over and over again. “You should have known better,” “You’re a failure,” “You really need to grow up, you’re such a child.”

This is the exact reason why she can never relax, why today is such a mess, why every day of her life is exhausting. Her brain won’t give her a rest. There’s always something it reminds her of that she hasn’t done yet; there’s always something she needs to contemplate before making a decision, even if it’s something as small as what to eat for dinner.

Which is why she should have known coming her would almost certainly cause her to break down. Be it in the middle of a ride or while walking down one of multiple paths leading up to one---or in a restroom stall. Because it’s not happening for the first time by far---she’s broken down before, so often, _even right here, in this park_ \---and she wants to rip the skin off of her entire body to punish herself for falling for what the _tiny_ moment of euphoria she’d experienced had made her do.

Her staring at the floor doesn’t help her decide what to do. She really, _really_ wants to leave, she does. But wouldn’t the messed up part of her win, then? Wouldn’t she give in to it? Give _up_? Yeah, she’d essentially tell it it had won. She’d signalize it that she’s weak and deserves to suffer from all the anxiety.

It isn’t like she can get into the park for free, either; she definitely paid to be here, so that is all the more reason not to _chicken out_ and go home. Home---where she can be anytime for free; where she _is_ all the time. She should really get up right now, go out there, and enjoy as much as she can. There are always roller coasters to go on, the nerves that are throbbing throughout her, then, might make her forget why she doesn’t want to be here. maybe she could go into a haunted house, too; not being seen means not being able to embarrass yourself in front of anyone. Also, there is a nice side effect of adrenaline rushing through veins that are very much used to nothing but anxiety flowing through them.

She comes to the conclusion that, yes, she wants to get out of this bathroom. To prove to herself that, just this once, she can _do_ it. She nods to herself, assuring herself that it is indeed the right thing to do right now. That being here is the right place to be today. That her anxiety is _not_ going to win. That she knows one moment of doubt is not enough to go home and ruin… this. Whatever _this_ may include.

And, just for a minute, the doubtful part of her is reduced to a bare minimum, has been shoved to the back of her head, is so deep buried under all the positivity that she doesn’t even remember why she had all the doubts in the first place, and she makes her way to the door of the bathroom, ready to do what she wants and needs to do, with pride showing in her every step. Whoever passes by her on the way into their stall will know that she is absolutely energized, will see how motivated she is to get past her fear. Because her fear---her irrational fear, the most irrational of fear, the fear of _people_ \---must not hinder her from doing things that she used to love, that she could love again, anymore. She does not want to feel restricted anymore. Which is why a smile settles on her face. It takes up her mouth at first, then her every pore, it contaminates all of her features as she struts right outside of the confining space---and into the crowd.

Her heartbeat accelerates, if only for a second, but she dismisses it as the rush that comes with being so motivated, so _willing_ to do something. Which, in her case, is _showing herself that she can enjoy being out, that she wants to enjoy it_. That it might be connected to something else---like her still existing illness---doesn’t cross her mind. That something inside her wants to tell her that maybe this is the wrong thing to do doesn’t get to her. That her heart is trying its best to prevent her from getting herself into a situation that she cannot handle---no matter how great she’s made herself feel, no matter how often she’s convinced herself she’s going to be fine, that nothing is going to happen to her---a situation that she might not see coming---does _not_ enter her mind.

Instead, she walks straight towards one of the many attractions of the park, hands on her pocket and smiling at strangers that walk past her, her heart jumping every time someone smiles back. She yet again does not pay any attention to her main organ---it seems that she does not realize in her high spirits that there is still a part of her that suffers whenever a stranger looks at her, whenever a _person_ looks at her, and that that part of her wants to make itself known, is making sure to prevent any and all situations that could be potentially dangerous to Camila. It is the _very_ careful part of her; the part that, perhaps, is _too_ careful; the part that she has managed to skillfully ignore throughout her walk; the part that she hopes she has left in the restroom and is nowhere to be seen until tonight, when she has left the park, when she is alone, when she can let her guard back down.

Camila would not be Camila, however, if she really _were_ that lucky.

Half an hour has passed since her little breakdown of things in the cramped stall. It is now almost one thirty in the afternoon. And it feels like the park is becoming more crowded by the second. It is mostly children with their parents, she has noticed, but children are still people.

 _People_. There are a lot of people. So many people. Right next to her, all around her. Everywhere. Wherever she looks, her eyes meet a stranger's. She cannot escape, people's fascinated gazes always inevitably and unwillingly lock on _her_. They don't stay for long, as people move on to more interesting scenarios---like some type of ship being _driven_ through the park a few yards away from her---but, for that small amount of seconds, she feels like it is her: the center of attention. Like there are spotlights on her.

It is absurd, of course, but that is what it feels like to her. The careful part of her is in high alert, screaming _I told you so, now abort! Abort!_ at her, pleading for her to finally listen, but her heart rate isn't that much above average---because her _average_ is high in itself, and the difference isn’t very noticeable to her---so she just keeps walking towards the strange ship-like thing with knitted eyebrows. She at least wants to see what is now very obviously causing the crowd to concentrate in one spot somewhere off of the main path.

The music flowing out of the loudspeakers is unrecognizable. To Camila, at least. It is a wonder, really; Camila knows a lot about music, no matter the kind. All the books she had read as a teenager had to have some kind of impact on her. It doesn’t prove to be too helpful currently, however; while she is floating within the stream of amusement park visitors on their way to-- a _pirate_ ship?

Well, that certainly is random. Not that anything should be unexpected in an amusement park where fairies and bears walk hand in hand, trying to entertain people by imitating each other’s voices but, yeah, a pirate ship being _driven_ through a park, on a road, is just a tiny bit weird. And the sheer strangeness of it makes her chuckle. She presses her lips together to avoid accidentally laughing out loud.

This is starting to be fun. As in real, actual fun that she hasn't had un a while, that she wishes she had more often. God, this is why she wanted to be here all along! Standing in a crowd, not being seen, not being paid attention to, being hidden---this is to her full satisfaction. Her heart seems to be satisfied, too. The smile that has taken over doesn't leave her lips, either, as more and more people around her collect to admire the very real-looking pirate home.

"Arrr!" comes the first words from the loudspeakers, "we'rrre herrre to enterrrtain you! So prrreparrre yourrrselves!"

A long silence follows in which no soul says a word. Everyone is staring ahead, at the ship---which is about to become a stage, surely. The anticipation is palpable. Camila is staring, too, biting her lip, waiting for whatever's to come. _Preparing_ herself, as the (most likely male) pirate has told them.

She supposes she already has done that, in a way. With all the walking arounds she's done, all the performances she's witnessed---if only from afar and for a short time---has shown her what might be happening soon. Except---this is going to be a lot bigger. No other show has drawn so many people towards it. So she's certain it's going to be _good_. She can't wait---a fact that is showing very much to the outside world due to the fact she's tapping her foot on the ground in an irregular rhythm that only somewhat fits the music that is playing on and off over the speakers.

It takes another while until the actors finally make their way onto the stage---the main deck of the ship. It is time that she uses to focus completely on the spot the show is going to take place in---instead of the heat of the crowd around her. As the music gets louder, she nods to herself, content she's managed to make sure she feels comfortable being here and watching the performance, to make sure she has the right level of calmness for this. (Especially seen as these shows almost _always_ have some sort of _Hey, someone from the audience probably wants to join us! How about we specifically choose the person who_ doesn't _?_ mentality going on.)

There is no way, however, she could have ever prepared herself for _her_.

A raven-haired actress with a _very_ tight mini-skirt and---Camila is not _that_ close to the stage but she _definitely_ can tell---green eyes. Green eyes that are more beautiful than she has ever seen in her life. The eyes are what draws Camila's attention in at first, but the way the woman is moving, the way her hips sway to the music, the way her hair dances in the wind---they're what _keep_ her attention.

And so it comes to this: Camila is absolutely _lost_ in the woman, only watching her, only _seeing_ her. She is lost in her beauty. In her moves. In her _everything_.

But, oh boy, her voice once she starts speaking… It's like Camila is in a trance. She cannot notice, cannot see, cannot hear anything else. The crowd's cheering is but a small inconvenience distantly roaring outside of her and her newly found soulmate's universe. It is perfect, she thinks, how they're here, together, having found one another in these most random circumstances. But that, she guesses, is how love works. It has its own mysterious ways. And, for the first time in her life, Camila understands why _love is blind_ is a saying at all. Because here she is, simply ignoring everything that is going on around her, not _seeing_ it. All that she has ever wanted is now right in front of her---both literally and figuratively. She is looking at the stage for ages, sunk into a dream, lost in her fantasy, her own realm---created specially for herself and her woman.

Naturally---she does only have eyes for _her--_ -she cannot follow the show. At all. Her focus is completely and utterly taken by green eyes and black hair, a pale face and mesmerizing hips. There is nothing else that has ever paralyzed her like this, and she knows it. It's a good feeling. _Such_ a good feeling. Because she doesn't notice the crowd and its intimidating loudness. Even the feedback from the speakers is absolutely lost on her. The very first thing she does note---after an eternity---is something spoken by a crew member. Not by _her_ , unfortunately. Camila wishes it were. She would give everything to hear that rasp.

But no. It's someone else.

"Because it's Lo's last night tonight--" The crowd interrupts them, and Camila cringes at how _bad_ it suddenly sounds-- "she gets to choose who joins us on stage!"

Really---it all goes downhill from there.

Camila should know by now that suddenly not being able to drown out noises, that not being able to block what someone else is doing---that that is a bad sign. That it's a horrible sign. That the careful part of her has made sure that she can prepare for the impact that is about to follow the current speed of two hundred miles per hour. But because she's still busy looking at who she can only describe as her _soulmate_ , she ignores the previous signs---her heartbeat, the sweat dripping down her forehead, her restless legs.

And so she's only really thrown back into the cold water that is reality when she realizes that not only the crowd is staring at what seems to be herself---no, the crew is, too.

"I hope she's not just died from how big of an honor it is to come up here!"

People laugh. Someone next to her snaps their fingers. "Hey," they say, "you're it!"

"Huh?" is the only thing to leave your mouth.

"You're supposed to be up on the ship!"

"Yes girl," another person behind you confirms, "Knock 'em dead!"

The _whoops_ and cheers are also telling her that, yeah, it is obviously her who has been chosen to go up on the stage. To join the actors and actresses. And, because there is no way to escape through the tightness of the crowd, she takes a step forward, and another one, and she can feel herself practically being pushed towards the ship, and she's trying really hard to just do what a normal human being would do right now---walk without tripping, get up there, make a joke or two when the mic is on her, get back down, go home and tell all her friends and family about how she was the _one_ to do this.

But she's not a normal human being. At least, she doesn't feel like it. However---as she walks further away from the spot she's been standing in so far---she enters a state in which she doesn't feel quite a lot. Nothing, really. Her body becomes rigid, is but a moving object. Her brain essentially shuts down. Why? Because it knows if it kept going normally---overthinking, _overreacting_ \---Camila would be so overstimulated, so sensitive to everything, that the results---once _this_ is finished---would be devastating.

It's like this: Camila is a plane, far above our heads, up in the sky, having lost its pilot, only using its wings to hold itself in the air. It's floating, barely, but it doesn't crash. It doesn't go up in flames, no, but it also cannot think for itself, so all is up to its surroundings. Its fate is up to everyone, everything but itself. It cannot rely on the pilot which is normally in there, nor the copilot. The situation must not last too long before disaster strikes.

It cannot be a good sight. A woman in her twenties on an intimidating-looking amusement park stage in the form of a kick-ass pirate ship, with her head sunken down almost into her chest, with her eyes glistening with tears in fear of what is to come next. It must look like she is having the worst time of her life. It should be the most fun she's ever had, she promised herself that she would, that she owes herself to be free and careless for once; and now, much like earlier in the bathroom stall, she wishes she had never had the idea to come here in the first place. She wishes she hadn't made plans, hadn't bought the expensive tickets, hadn't convinced herself that this time, this one time, she'd be absolutely cool with being among so many people. She wishes she didn't have these episodes of euphoria to make her do things she should know she cannot do.

She doesn't even _deserve_ to feel euphoric. Ever. The reason is _this_ \---the way she handles the results to come out of her euphoric states! It isn't fair to others---who deserve fun---to take it away, to claim it as hers, when she doesn't know what to do with it. God, she really wishes she could just live her life in peace and be constantly anxious, at least then, she wouldn't get herself into messes like this.

Her fists ball and her teeth start clenching in rage.

If only she had never been born. None of this would have ever happened. She wouldn't have to deal with any of this _shit._ Nobody else would have to. The actors would have someone who's actually enjoying their performance, who's actually worthy of being here, who's actually watching and taking part in the project. But, instead, the crew and audience have gotten a woman who's no good, who can't do anything, who's too rigid with nerves---and now rage, too---to move at all.

She decides, then, that it has to have an end. She has to spare the crowd and the actors _this_. Before thinking any further---it would lead to more distress, she _knows_ it would, it always _fucking_ does---she mumbles a shaky apology and then runs down the stairs to her left without looking back, hoping and praying that she doesn't start crying, sobbing, puking before she reaches a secluded space.

Camila feels like she's suffocating. Like there are walls appearing all around her, closing in on her at a speed so rapid that she cannot escape; yet she tries, she runs, with tears clouding her vision so much that she can barely see where she is going at all, and she runs and runs and runs until she sees a restroom sign, only to run further, making it into the small cubicle just in time. The second she has locked the door, she bends over the toilet. In a matter of seconds, her stomach is completely empty. Her throat is sore from the bile making its way up to her mouth; and her legs give in under the force of her being ill over and over again.

It takes at least half an hour---she cannot tell the exact amount of time---for her to recover enough to be seen back outside. It is spent sitting on the toilet, leaning her head against the wall, not being able to process anything. Her head is empty. Her eyes are glazed over. She stares blankly at the stall door where there are loads of scratches and little phrases, but she cannot make sense of them in the slightest. She isn't sure if she even blinks once. She has to, surely, it isn't physically possible not to blink for so long, but she doesn't even realize _that_.

At one point, she decides that sitting inside here, in the cold, smelly bathroom, isn't going to get her her money's worth. She leaves the stall, then, thouroughly washes her hands---she makes sure not to look at herself in the mirror---and goes outside. The sun is blinding. She grimaces. But isn't bothered by it any further. She simply takes one step after the other, not really paying attention to anything, not really having the strength to think about anything. She mostly looks at the rock path under her feet, doesn't want to waste too much energy looking up. The watch on her wrist tells her, at one point, that it is almost four in the afternoon now.

Camila is tired. It is only four but she is more tired, more exhausted than she has ever been. And she is sore all over. Her limbs hurt, the insides hurt. Her heart is aching. Her throat is killing her. Today's events have taken their toll on her. _Jeez, what an understatement._ The thought makes her laugh. It's bitter. It's forced. And it makes her angry again. She shouldn't have had to deal with all that. Really---she's likely gone through more shit today than other people go through in half a year. She has probably aged about ten years in the past four hours alone. So, no, she shouldn't have had to live through that. It isn't fair.

Camila almost trips over her own foot. Her legs feel too heavy to keep walking; she realizes this when it is almost too late. Fortunately, however, there is a bench a few meters away, and she walks towards it, more than ready to sit down and rest her body and soul.

Other people would now think back to what the day has brought them. The experiences, the fun, the amazing, awesome, incredibly great things that have happened. But today has been a mess. _She_ has been a mess. And she doesn't think she's _like_ other people---she doesn't think anything good has happened today. Because Camila is someone who only ever focuses on the bad things. And she knows it. It's bad, it's annoying her. Along with everything else about herself.

Surprisingly, though---it isn't _all_ that hard to find one good thing that she can go over in a situation like this. Her brain has obviously decided to make up for the past hours. So once she realizes just _what_ is going to save her day, she actually starts smiling. It's her soulmate. She has found them. She has found _her_. A beautiful woman, a talented dancer. With the best voice she's ever had the pleasure of hearing. Oh, that rasp! She doesn't think she's ever going to get over that. She doesn't think she's ever going to get over _her_. She's the one.

The smile engraved on her lips, in the meantime, has turned into what can only be described as _the_ dreamiest look one can imagine. It's all _her_. She has made Camila's day infinitely better, and she isn't even physically there. Not anymore, anyway. No, she is only in her thoughts, and, still, she manages to bring out positive emotions, good feelings in her---even after _everything_. It's the way her hair had been flowing in the wind, the way her body had moved the entire time she'd been on stage, the way her voice had cracked once while singing. All that she'd done had been attractive to Camila. There wasn't a single thing she _hadn't_ liked. Not one. If that isn't love at first sight…

This feels good, Camila thinks. The way her stomach is filled with butterflies. Not in a bad, anxiety-ridden way---no, in a very, very good way. And, she thinks, it is something she wants to keep, something that she doesn't want to end here, something that she doesn't want to leave behind on this bench. So she makes a decision---the decision to leave the park. It isn't five minutes before closing time, and she hasn't done everything she could have done, but she has gotten more than she could have wished---or bargained---for. Everything good, everything bad.

She gets up. Her body and soul are in such a good place that she doesn't mind the sun, it isn't taking her vision away, isn't blinding her as before. Instead, she soaks it in---with her head held high, her arms and mind open, her eyes as bright as the sky above her.

From the bench, it takes a mere ten minutes until she's reached the entrance gate to the park. Once she's there, she does something very cliché, something you see people do in the movies: She turns around, hands in the pockets of her jeans, and takes one last glance at the crowd that is still enjoying themselves.

And she wishes them well. All of them. She doesn't know them, any of them, but she hopes for them to be happy for the rest of the day. To have the time of their lives. The smile that is still on her lips becomes bigger. She genuinely wants other people to be doing great. Because she knows how hard it is to try, but not succeed to get oneself in a good place, mentally.

She turns around a few seconds later, ready to walk to the parking lot, when someone suddenly calls out, "Hey you!"

Her eyes grow wide. Do they mean her? Also, why is their voice so similar to her soulmate's? Camila turns around to check what's going on. She expects people to look at her, to laugh at her for turning around for someone that isn't talking to her---but it never comes. Because the person she's heard, the person she has just _identified_ has definitely spoken to _her_. How she knows? Well---the person is looking at her, sprinting _towards_ her.

Camila chokes on her own saliva. It's not just a voice similar to _hers_ , it is _hers._ It's her. Her soulmate has just called out for her. And she does it again while Camila is staring. Right at her. "Hey," she says in a breathless tone, "God, I've been meaning to find you for the past hour!" A quiet chuckle follows her words.

Canila blinks. "Uh-- you-- you just found me." It sounds like a question. Camila doesn't know why, since it technically isn't one. Not really.

"Yeah! And I'm so glad I did."

A look at the gorgeous face in front of her tells Camila that _Lo_ \---she remembers what the other crew member had called her---is definitely here in good intentions. She's not going to embarrass her. Or make fun of her for being so weird on stage. No, she's come here to---to what? To talk? To ask her something? "I-- why did you want to find me?"

The woman laughs again. It is quieter than the first laugh, Camila observes. "I wanted to apologize, actually."

"What do you mean?" Camila is taken aback. What is going on? There is nothing to apologize for, as far as she knows. Yeah, she might not have felt well during the performance, but that did not have anything to do with the actors or actresses, or even the performance itself. It's just her illness. And _they_ didn't know about it. It's all on herself for having come to the park. So she looks at Lauren expectantly, interested in what the woman is about to say.

Lauren swallows and takes a step closer to her. Camila is good at reading signals, at reading people, and she knows Lauren is _definitely_ genuine in what she's doing and saying. Her stance, her posture is upright, is welcoming, she's not about to mock her or do anything bad. Which means Camila can relax, can simply listen. "I really just wanted to apologize. I know I chose you earlier, and I am _so_ sorry for that. Not because I don't think you didn't fit with the ensemble---I knew you did, otherwise I wouldn't have picked you." The woman clears her throat before continuing. "I just mean---and I hope you don't think I'm a bad person---I saw that you were really freaked out. And not in the positive _Hey, I'm on a stage! Oh my God_ way. You didn't just seem uncomfortable. You were really, really anxious up there, and I'm sorry for doing that to you. I'm sorry for putting you through that. I don't know just how bad your anxiety is but I do know that, however bad it is, getting picked to go on stage when so many people are watching…"

Yeah, it _was_ bad.

"...it's shit. Which is why I couldn't let you go home thinking nobody cared. Or that we laughed about you. I assure you, we didn't."

Camila bites the inside of her cheek, not quite knowing what to reply. To say that she appreciates the gesture is an understatement. This means so much to her. She thought she'd not see the woman in front of her again---after essentially falling for her after a minute---and now here she is, apologizing for triggering a bad symptom of an illness that isn't even all that known. She really did hit the jackpot with her soulmate. She wishes she could say all of that. For now, though, all that she answers is, "Thank you. Thank you so much. I'm-- I'm really glad that--" She swallows the tears that she knows are coming. "Thanks." She bites her cheek harder, trying desperately to prevent the salty liquid from leaving her eyes.

"I really hope you didn't feel too ill after getting off that stage."

Camila awkwardly clears her throat. Well…

Lauren seems to catch on immediately. "Jesus, I'm so sorry. We all are. What happened? Are you okay now?" She takes another step towards Camila, and she looks like she wants to reach out and touch her arm---in comfort---but decides against it at the last second. "God, I really hope I didn't absolutely ruin everything. I just thought-- oh, man." The woman runs her hand through her hair. Her visible nervousness tells Camila that she's feeling awfully bad about what happened.

When she sees her soulmate shake her head and close her eyes, she realizes she has to make sure the woman knows everything's mostly fine now. "Hey now," she says, "it's okay. I'm alright." She nods in a reassuring manner once the woman's gaze is back on her. "I did throw up but--"

Her eyes grow comically wide as. she covers her mouth in shock. "Christ!"

"I promise I'm okay now," Camila tries again. The smile on her face convinces her.

Almost. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay, well--" Her soulmate hides her hands in her pockets-- "just in case you ever want to rant to the one who personally made your stay at the park hell or-- or if you need them to pay the bills in case you have to be committed to--"

What the hell?

"Bad joke?"

Jesus Christ. Yeah, it is. She nods a few times.

"Sorry. Um-- anyway, if you want to talk--" the woman takes one of her hands back out of her pocket and stretches her arm out towards Camila-- "here's my number."

Her _what_? "I-- um."

"Here, take it," she insists, "please just-- just tell me once you're feeling better. Let me know I didn't make your entire life worse."

Camila is at a loss for words. She has no clue what is going on. No way is this real life. There is absolutely no chance the person she considers her soulmate is trying to give her her number. Absolutely none. When she looks into those oh so green eyes, however, she sees the pleading look she's giving her, and she knows that something about all of this must be real. _Lo_ must care about her, at least a little, or she wouldn't need to make sure she is okay, wouldn't have tried to find a random person she'd never seen before only to apologize. So Camila does, after her consideration, take the small post-it from the woman---who in turns smiles at her. And it is the most genuine, the most grateful smile she has ever seen anyone give her. And she, too, starts smiling, and she tells her, "Thank you again."

"I hope you have a safe ride home. Take care." With this, the woman turns around all but runs back into the park and enters it by holding an electronic card against some machine that says _staff only_. Once she has passed it, she takes one last look over her shoulder, waves at Camila, and not a second later, she's gone, swallowed by the hungry crowd.

Camila looks down at the card she has just received. _Lauren Jauregui_ , it reads, along with the park's name and her personal number. She briefly wonders what the purpose of the cards is---giving it to people who have anxiety attacks while being invited on stage surely isn't---but she dismisses the thought and instead shoves the card into her pocket. She makes sure it's her left pocket, though, as she doesn't want to risk it falling down when she takes out her phone.

Speaking of the devil---her eyes almost pop out of her head as said device suddenly starts vibrating. And won't stop. She fishes it out instantly, but it just keeps going. Jesus. She isn't expecting a text or call from anyone, so she just knits her brows in confusion as she unlocks the phone. A look at the screen tells her that it's a number she hasn't saved. _Great_. Probably some ad that she never asked for. A resigned sigh leaves her lips. Ah, well, the day has drained all her energy, so she may as well open a message that potentially drains all energy from her phone. She shrugs to herself.

A click later she knows it's _definitely_ not an ad. It looks like a normal text message. Actually, scratch that. It's more than one. They're quite a few, actually. Well---that _would_ explain why it had vibrated for so long. The confusion in her grows, though. And so does the worry. What's going on? Did something happen to her family or friends? Why else would someone---or multiple someones---text her more than once? It must be an emergency. Her heart rate _definitely_ senses an emergency.

It isn't, though, which she realizes once she has started reading the texts. Her heart goes back to normal right away, and she lets out a chuckle.

_[4:30pm]_

_hey chancho, sup_

_just letting you know i smashed my phone so I kinda had to get a new one lol_

_and a new number obviously_

_[4:31pm]_

_anyway so like for some reason i thought i had my phone in my room but as it turned out it was on the couch which i sorta jumped on_

_my ass did the rest_

_[4:32pm]_

_enough talk about my ass though i mean it IS great and i could technically talk about it for a while but i'd rather annoy you in person_

_sorry for disturbing you btw lol_

_[4:33pm]_

_text me so i know youre not dead or else_

Camila shakes her head at her best friend. Of course she'd do something like that. Smashing her phone with her butt? Jesus. She types out her reply.

_[4:34pm]_

_i can't actually believe you, dinah jane_

_[4:35pm]_

_i can't actually believe you can't actually believe me camila cabello_

The reply makes her roll her eyes. She looks up from her phone and starts walking towards her car. She switches from her chats to her memos to check what parking space she'd parked in earlier but switches right back once she has the right number in her head. As she looks for the right lot, she focuses back on her phone---all the while paying attention to potential cars coming her way.

She decides to tease her best friend for the response she's just given her.

_[4:37pm]_

_ok so like...omg_

_not just omg_

_more like...omg!!!!!!_

_or rather OMG!!!!!!!!!_

_[4:37pm]_

_what_

Camila bites her lip. She loves doing this.

_[4:38pm]_

_seriously, what what's going on_

_??????_

To stop herself from laughing, she has to bite her lip harder. With her car now in sight, though, she types her answer.

_[4:37pm]_

_omgzndjsnxbcbcn_

_[4:38pm]_

_are you serious_

_you can't ignore my messages only to write_

_THAT back mila_

_mila i swear to god i'll kick your ass_

She laughs out loud. It's funny, seeing her friend suffer the same way _she_ usually does when she only gets part of the information she needs from her. It feels good, finally getting her revenge. At the same ttime, however, she wants to tell someone about what's happened. So she does.

_[4:38pm]_

_dinah_

_dinah i just met my soulmate_

_MY SOULMATE ZJDNNC_

Kind of.

_[4:38pm]_

_WHAT???? OMG_

_[4:39pm]_

_mila holy shiy tell me all about ir_

_where when how what?? i need yo know_

_[4:40pm]_

_MILA_

_[4:41pm]_

_CAMILA CABELLO IS2G_

Her car is right in front of her now---and she wants to go home as soon as possible to take a bath. To forget about the not-so-great parts of today. So, yeah, she knows she's about to give in _way_ too easily---but so be it.

[ _4:42pm]_

_sjdjdjcfn ok ok so i went to that park like i told you_

_and i was super anxious jesus christ i still am and there was this ship thing that the actors and sctresses rode on through the park_

_and like_

_[4:43pm]_

_the actors were all FINE but this one girl….holy fuck. she was so attractive like. god. and i was so focused on her i couldnt hear or see antyjing else ok_

_[4:44pm]_

_but you know how they do that thing where they call ppl up to join them_

Her heart skips a beat thinking about it. She needs to focus on something else, really, but she also can't leave parts of the story out for her friend. She doesn't want to leave her hanging… yet.

_[4:45pm]_

_first of all YES GIRL_

_but also like....no way_

_god how did you survive_

_[4:46pm]_

_mila are you okay i know you really dont like or do things like that_

Sighing, she types her reply.

_[4:46pm]_

_ngl it was pretty bad_

_like i threw up and all_

_but i calmed down and actually managed to enjoy some stuff_

_[4:47pm]_

_i'm so sorry_

_you should have called me_

_i'll come over tomorrow and give you hugs xxxxx_

A smile graces her features as she gets her keys out to unlock the car. Having Dinah come over sounds great to her. So great. She wants to be in her own home, on her couch, and she wants to rant about how shitty her anxiety is.

She quickly opens the driver's door and gets in. Soon, she _will_ be home. Finally. Only a drive of half an hour separates her from her bathtub. And her bed. And only a day left before she can vent about _everything_ but Lo.

_[4:48pm]_

_yes please_

_then i'll tell you the rest_

She chuckles as she turns on the engine. It _is_ a bit cruel, she cannot deny that, but so is Dinah, like, ninety percent of the time. So, yeah, she can't wait to see her friend's desperate messages, her begs for more information, when she gets home.

_[4:48pm]_

_…..there's more?_

_THERE'S MORE?_

_[4:50pm]_

_don't you dare leave me hanging_

_[4:51pm]_

_i hate you_

_i'll still give you hugs but i hate you_

_you better give me all the dirty details tomorrow_

_[4:59pm]_

_love you. be safe x_

_/// read 5:37pm ///_

Camila grins as she reads the message and pours herself a glass of coke. She cannot wait to see Dinah, to tell her everything in person. She can't wait for her _incredible_ help to get the girl, either, and she's sure her friend---although younger---has quite some advice for her.

Right now, she is _so_ going to use the bath bomb that she swore she'd only use for a special occasion. After the day she's had? She deserves it.

And something else she _more_ than deserves is waiting for her once she's back in her room two hours later. It comes in the form of a name on a tiny post-it that seems to have fallen out of the pocket of her jeans.

 _Lauren_ _Jauregui_.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it. please leave kudos cause i worked ages on this and i hate when people read but dont actually recognize my shit. 
> 
> anyway im going on holiday in a few hours so I'll see y'all later x


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